Bittersweet
by Merzibelle
Summary: Wes says one final farewell. This little vignette hit me while I was listening to Hero by Enrique Iglesias and Here with Me by Faith Hill. More than a bit depressing, but fitting, I think. It has dialogue from First Impressions, The Shroud of Rahmon, Hear


Bittersweet  
  
Wesley wandered through the dusty, abandoned hallways of the Hyperion Hotel. In his mind, he could hear and see the memories, all the things he'd never have again. His wandering led him back to the mezzanine. He stood there, bracing his arms to either side of himself, looking out over the marbled expanse of the lobby. Drawing a breath, he descended the stairs to that lobby, crossing the room with a calmness that belied his feelings. A Wyndham-Pryce never showed his emotions, no matter how much pain he was in.  
  
"This isn't mere dust.  This is 'son of dust.' This is the kind of dust that spawns countless generations of little baby dust. - I give up."  
  
He paused at the counter, tugging an envelope from his inner jacket pocket to lay it there. Sliding his fingers over the envelope and onto the smooth marble expanse of the counter, he allowed his eyes to close, let the memories come as they would.  
  
"Premiere, actually. And - I happen to have an extra ticket..."  
  
"Who does shallow better than me?"  
  
"Cordelia," Wes murmured in the silence, his voice barely punctuating the quiet of the lobby. That memory was replaced by a different one, Gunn and more recent.  
  
"True. I mean, who's got time for love when you're out there doin' it with the demons? Didn't that come out sad and wrong?"  
  
He turned, looking across the now stained and damaged lobby floor. Other memories flitting though his mind, now of him and Gunn, preparing to defend the very child that he'd lost only weeks previous.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Trying to imagine myself as John Wayne in Rio Bravo. You?"  
  
"Austin Stoker, Assault on Precinct Thirteen."  
  
"If we live through this, trade in your DVD players and get a life."  
  
Cordelia's voice came again, on the night when he'd reached both the highest and lowest points in his personal life. He had it all and had lost it because he'd waited a moment too long. With a sigh, Wes allowed the memories to play themselves out on his mind's eye.  
  
"At ease, soldier. Just like to hear it every now and then. I was the ditziest bitch in Sunnydale, could have had any man I wanted. Now I'm all superhero-y and the best action I can get is an invisible ghost who's good with the Loohfah."  
  
"Tonight feels... I don't know - kind of magical. Is that stupid?"  
  
"Not at all. Finally came out of hiding."  
  
"And look at my reward."  
  
"Yes. Isn't she a vision?"  
  
"Well, that's a surprise. I thought for sure she was meant to be with Angel. I guess you never can predict those things. You know?"  
  
"No. I guess you never can," Wes murmured, repeating again the same soft phrase that he had five months before. He raised his hand, stroking his fingers over the slowly fading scar on his neck. Shaking his head, he set the other two things he held on the counter. He knew one of them would find these things in the morning: she or Gunn. He had caught a glimpse of them, entwined about each other, when he'd paused by the barely open door to her room. Resolutely forcing back the tears, he traced shaking fingers over the velvet soft petals of the slowly unfurling white rose in its crystal vase, his eyes lingering on the keys to the place that had been more a home to him then the flat that he'd just closed up.  
  
Stepping away from the counter, Wes crossed the room, climbing the short flight of stairs to the entrance, casting one final glance over the lobby, remembering: Fred's soft, infectious giggle as she built a contraption that only she would understand; Cordelia's warm smiles as she dished out her badly made coffee; Lorne's admiration of the lobby's acoustics. Wes' eye lit upon the closed door to his former office, other memories flitting through his mind: Angel changing Connor on the desktop; his call to his father; reminiscing about Fred when they'd thought she'd left them.  
  
He'd lost it all.  
  
Tugging open the door, he reached back, flipping the locks for a final time before exiting the hotel. With a slow, heavy tread and an even heavier heart, Wesley descended the stairs to where the bike was parked, zipping his leather jacket as he went. Tugging on the helmet, he reached down and started the bike, casting one last, long, lingering glance up at her still lighted window. "Good-bye, Fred," he whispered, gunning the engine and pulling away from the place he'd thought of as home for one final time. 


End file.
